Solo From Solitary
by Isolated Int
Summary: The world Dib grew up in, and still is growing up in, is utterly insane. After all these years, so is he – yes, utterly original, I know. Rated for the soul-crushingly disturbing happenings, not for the romance aspect.
1. Chapter 1

Isolated Int

Note: As this is an adaptation of a comic script I wrote but never drew, sometimes the visuals jump around a bit beyond the characters' physical (or temporal) locations, and is why there may be at times what seems excessive **emphasis** on certain words.

Solo From Solitary

Dib left the High Skool Library with a couple of books under his arms. The library, as poorly kept as it was, proved a vital sanctuary for him in these early years of adolescence, when more than ever the bitterly optimistic promises he had heard, from his cheerfully oblivious father if no one else, that life would get better once he reached high skool struck him as a counterfeit adage. Even the science fiction nerds and other believers in ghosts kept their distance if not outright ridiculing him, reasoning that he had long ago crossed the line into full-blown crazy.

Grasping his current reads (Unknown Skies, Paranormal Reality, Hacking For the Modern Life, Tips on Conlanging), he looked behind him as he shut the door before resuming a brisk pace on his way to the quad. As much as his peers' taunts and abuse had angered him as a young child, it paled in comparison to what he faced these days. The escalation of their animosity against him – no, it wasn't so much an increase in how much they hated him, just in how much they felt compelled to prove their hatred. While he'd redoubled his efforts to keep up the fight, it became increasingly difficult to maintain an umbrella of hope against every onslaught of –

"What do you have there?"

Dib blinked. As alert as he tried to stay, he got distracted far too easily. "Why do you want to know? To set me up for another joke?"

Gretchen fumbled for words, looking for something to fix her eyes on. "No, I...I'm really interested in you."

"_Please_." he rolled his eyes, sifting through his pocket. "Last time I bought _that_ I was in third grade."

"No. I really want to know –Is that a cigarette?"

"Mm-hm." He turned the corner around the library to recede into the narrow space between the wall and a chain-link fence, a lighter in hand.

"Since when did you smoke?"

"Picked it up last year." Dib extinguished the flame of the lighter before taking an exasperated puff.

"You're just giving in to _them_, you know," she said quietly.

"I'm not trying to fool anybody into thinking I'm cool. I'm done with that shit," he said, waving the cigarette at an angle.

"Why then?"

"Because sometimes a little self-destruction can be soothing." He held it up to his mouth again and inhaled.

"Dib?"

"Yeah?"

"That cigarette isn't lit."

He tapped the end, as if to cast off ashes. "Right."

* * *

Dib trudged out of the locker room, glasses mangled, eyes blackened, shoulder dislocated, and blood on his lip. A harsh laughter reached his ears, making him flinch as the sound of footsteps echoed, diminishing while the five boys fled. The familiar, heavy wetness of blood slid freely from his nose, and in a quiet apathy, he merely followed it with his pupils, as if to dare it to make a mess.

It would only last so long. Numbness failing again, he slammed his open backpack against the wall, several notebooks and binders spilling out halfway. He grabbed the corner of a sheet of paper, tearing it out without removing the binder from the backpack, swabbing at his upper lip, his gaze averted.

He stood in front of his locker, traces of mostly dried blood still smattered across his mouth, and still more blood dripping from his left nostril. The combination turned in his hands, effortlessly, as he glanced both ways and behind him. _'That's funny. Normally it opens right away.' _He gave the door a few more tugs.

The door swung open. A mass of partially congealed glue encased his schoolbooks.

"End it..."

"Who said that?" Dib turned around sharply, looking for the culprit. Turning the corner to see whether the prankster was hiding in a nearby classroom, he saw that he was alone. He threw his binder to the floor and ran off, his stuff falling out of his open backpack as he went.

Among the items he'd lost was Unknown Skies, which a kid kicked on the way to their locker, knocking out the card inside.

"Happy Birthday, Dib!

I hope you like this book.

-Sincerely, Gretchen"

* * *

"Psychosis. Insanity. That's what they call this." Dib resettled himself into his straitjacket. Whether because of a lack of room or his mental health record, or some third, more sinister reason, his accommodations consisted of a solitary padded room with no furnishings. "I do not experience the same reality that most people do. I do not have the luxury of privacy, for when others are not controlling my mind, they read it or speak into it.

"Psychosis for me was the natural progression from a life in isolation to my life now, in which no boundaries of internal or external exist. No boundaries between my thoughts and their thoughts, my dreams and my realities, my nightmares and myself. But now that I finally am crazy enough to belong in a crazy house, I am sane enough to realize that nobody really belongs here. This is just where we end up when love is scarce and our strife is a burden that society can no longer shoulder.

"That night they brought me here, they asked me why I didn't tell anyone I was feeling troubled." He twitched his nose, adjusting his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "They asked me if I was afraid – afraid of being **labeled**."

_ The psychiatrist stared into his computer, not missing a beat of his typing since he'd asked the question. "Are you kidding me? I've been labeled crazy my whole __**life**__," said Dib._

_ He leaned back in his chair, looking almost bemused. "Then what were you afraid of?"_

_ Closing his eyes in relish of something unspeakably sweet, he said simply, "Everything."_

* * *

Dib sat in his bed, staring out, his lip quavering.

_ "...End it..."_

"Leave me alone," Dib said.

_ "...End it...End it, Dib, End it...You know what you want to end, Dib."_

"_Just one slash of the wrist, just one bullet, just one – "_

"You're right. I **do **know what I want to end. I **need **to end **you!**"

_ "You can't end us without ending yourself."_

"This...this is insanity."

"_Yes, Dib! Finally, you understand! Your whole life, you mistakenly have believed you were misunderstood, but it's __**you **__who misunderstood. You're utterly insane! You should be locked up in a loony-bin for life because __**you **__are a hopeless lunatic! Congratulations! Revel in your disconnect! No one can fix you now, you crazy boy!"_

Dib touched his hand to his forehead. "I'm crazy."

"_Yes!"_

"I'm horribly demented!" he shouted, practically choking himself in a frightened gesture.

"_Yes!"_

He hugged himself like he was cold, speaking softly, "I'm irreparably insane." Dib fell backward against his bed, hand slipping down the windowsill.

"_You're a broken child. Reality has fragmented to accommodate your twisted perceptions."_

He sat up rapidly. "Wait – if I'm crazy, that means you're not real."

_ "True. But before you make any judgment, take a careful evaluation: what is real and what is only you? How much of what you consider reality is merely a projection of some aspect of yourself?"_

"That explains this ambiguity of dreams and reality..."

_ "Your dreams are your solitary bridge. Now, cross it!"_

"_No! He should shatter it! Ensure that nothing external can interfere with his mind!"_

_"No. Let him take time on the bridge – finesse the bridge before he destroys it."_

"Finesse a bridge – am I high?"

_ "You're not high, Dib. We have been with you your whole life, just waiting for the moment to emerge – for the right idiots to take their cues and slate you to this fate."_

"You have no need to be afraid." The psychiatrist, Mr. Pilsak, finally averted his eyes from the computer to direct some attention towards Dib. "You see, psychosis is a biochemical disorder. You have a chemical imbalance in the brain that's causing this."

"And you think it has **nothing **to do with the lifetime of humiliation, beating, and isolation?"

"Try to avoid stress. That's very bad for psychosis. Anyway, these meds help correct that imbalance."

"What happens if I'm on them for years, and my life is **still** a sack of shit?"

"Are you religious?"

"You obviously know how to calm the panicking mind."

* * *

Dib craned his neck out to look at the clock in the mental institution hall. "I still don't understand how they can be so blind. How can they call this kind of breakdown a physical disease when suffering is so crucial an element? And yet, it is biological, too. How else do the voices sound just like real people's voices? Which makes sense, since thought originates from the brain. But it's mostly psychological...at least, that's how I best understand this chaos. Because if it isn't...I'm chained to my nightmare forever. And if I believe I'm shackled permanently to some separate entity insanity, what reason have I to resist it?

"How do I even know what to resist in the first place...when I've stopped resisting insanity and I'm instead resisting myself? How good is that for maintaining connection with reality? These voices...they aren't just some freak biological abnormality. Somehow...somehow, it's a part of me...not that I particularly LIKE that part of me...but it's me all the same. Just my nightmare...crystallized." His eyes slackened and gave way to dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

Solo From Solitary

"Mrs. Sardiv? You called me from class?" Dib leaned inside the Guidance Office, a strange mash-up of motivational posters and advertisements for careers in advertising.

"Yes. Now, sign here." The counselor handed him a clipboard.

"Detention? Why?"

"Vandalism. We found your locker full of glue."

"What? I didn't do that! I'm the one who **reported **it!"

"Just sign it, Dib."

"But Torque did it! He even wrote '_Dib is a freak_' all over the door! He **signed **his **name**!"

"Well, you **are** freaky."

Pointing his index finger to the recently painted ceiling, he said, "But I still didn't do it."

"The point isn't who did what, Dib. It's more a question of who brought what upon themselves."

"Excuse me?"

"You see, you're always screaming about **aliens **and **ghosts **and whatnot."

"And this relates to me getting detention for something I didn't do **how**?"

"Dib, you're crazy. You have to expect this kind of treatment from your peers." Dib put his head in his hand, looking out the window as he waited for The Lecture to end. Again. "You see, there are three things you don't talk about – religion, politics, and **space aliens!**"

"And abortion," said Mr. Fay, the visiting counselor from the other high skool.

"Abortion, too," Mrs. Sardiv said, firmly as though she were educating a small child about the dangers of talking to strangers. "See, we don't discuss our views on abortion," she said in a tone befitting an instructional video about the value of staying away from drugs.

"Mm-hm," Mr. Fay nodded brightly in agreement.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Dib said under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Mr. Fay perked up from whatever he was doing by the window. "What was that?"

"Are you feeling...disturbed?" asked Counselor Sardiv in a stilted voice of clinical disinterest.

"Yes, I'm feeling disturbed!" Dib stood up. "Disturbed that you're so stupid and yet decide the paths kids' lives take! What the **hell **does **abortion **have to do with **vandalism**?"

"The point is we don't go on insane rants that make us isolated and insane."

"Okay – blame me for being intelligent and thus a social outcast – fine. I almost take it as a compliment. That still doesn't explain why I'm getting punished for a crime someone else committed."

"Just sign it and get over it."

"I'll go to your stupid little detention."

"**Finally **you're cooperating."

" – but I am NOT signing that paper."

"Why are you so difficult?"

"Why are you so brainless?"

"Go back to class, Dib."

Dib slung his backpack over his shoulder. "Yeah. Class. Like any learning goes on there." He left for his geography class, but stopped outside the room for a moment before entering. When he saw a fellow student of his class grinning at him through the window while punching a plush Dib, he continued out the other end of the hall, hardly losing the rhythm of his saunter.

Sometimes you just need to give up some ground in order to stay on your feet.

* * *

Mr. Farley wrote a series of numbers on the chalkboard. Dib arrived right as the bell rang, noticing that the class had changed the seating arrangement yet again. A gap in the desks was left for him to fill a seat. It was unusual for Mr. Farley to remain silent on his tardiness. However, he kept his attention to the board.

The classroom door opened again.

"Anyone who can tell me what this sequence is gets twenty points." He looked to the entrance of the classroom. "Gretchen –

you're late."

Dib stared at the pencil on his desk.

"_...End it, Dib...End it...End it..."_

He bit his lip with increasing tension, his pencil on the verge of breaking in two.

"Take whatever seat is left."

The pencil snapped, breaking into three pieces, one in each hand, another fragment of cheap wood and graphite flying onto the floor. Dib stood up. "It's the Fibonacci number sequence in which each term is the sum of the preceding two; each term is approximately equal to the previous term multiplied by the Golden Ratio, which has a value of one plus radical five divided by two."

"Actually, Gretchen just said that."

Dib turned to his right, seeing Gretchen in the seat directly next to him. She smiled at him. He waved nervously, trying to crack a smile. She put her head in her hand and drew a heart around a sketch of Dib and her holding hands.

* * *

"She was my sole refuge from life. When I was with her, I'd retreat from the outside world and discover some inner tranquility previously unknown to me. This was my dilemma: when I connected with the outside world, all I found was isolation. When I severed the connection, I became emotionally cohesive. It was the only way to sustain myself. It was in pursuit of connectivity that I cut my ties with the outside world...and wandered its fringes."

He discovered he could no longer find refuge in the isolation of the empty halls, because whenever they emptied, they soon filled again with the disquiet and terror of waking nightmares.

The halls were empty. He hoped this would last.

"If you don't cooperate, I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

"Please, don't – Help! Rape! He's raping me!"

He bolted for the girls' bathroom, where he heard the screams, wondering why no one else was coming. (_Were humans that bad?_)

"Please, someone! Help me!"

"I'm coming!" He burst through the door, but found all the stalls were empty, and the only girl in there (smoking pot) who was screaming was screaming because he'd run into the girls' restroom.

_End it..._

"Sorry! Wrong bathroom," he said, tripping over the sink on his way out, running to look for the right room. Until it became apparent that there was no right room. He leaned his back up against the wall, breathing labored breaths, until finally he screamed and ran out the building, not returning until lunch.

Even then, it was lunch in name only. And he'd only returned at that time as a matter of coincidence. Missing meals meant he felt hungry, and that at least yielded a connection, however tenuous, to feeling, regardless how numb he grew to everything else.

So instead of eating, or of socializing, he paced the halls and philosophized.

"I can't help but wonder if dreams can control reality. It seems that everything in the outside world is simply a reflection of the inside world. If that's true, then our perceptions of reality, being so similar to one another's, weave some deep interconnection between every person and everything. So, social connectedness leads to a consensus of reality. That makes sense; I'm extremely socially isolated, and the only person who listens to what I know about Zim – or anything, for that matter – is Gretchen, and she's almost as isolated as I am.

"Reality is **only **what one perceives. Everyone's perceptions are unique, so everyone's reality is unique as well. There is no **one** reality – there are an **infinite **number of realities, each as valid as the last. It's when one person's perception – their **reality** – differs significantly from the accepted reality – the accepted **perception** – that someone gets labeled insane.

"It doesn't matter how right or how wrong it is – if it's different, it's socially disconnected, and thus it's insane, abnormal, aberrant, hated. I believe I'm getting somewhere." He paused to smile.

"Now, when it comes to the stupidity of the school bureaucracy..." Gretchen peeked at him from behind a corner, stepping into the hall, but retreating as soon as Dib began to complete another circuit down the hall.

_'It was when I wandered out of the social reality – and into my perceptions – I first spoke with __**them**__...'_

"_Dib...Dib."_

"Wha – who's here?"

"_You are, Dib."_

"Do you think this is funny?"

"_End it, Dib."_

"You end it first!"

"_You're the only one who can end it, Dib."_

"Go away!" he covered his ears with his hands. He'd been doing that more often lately.

_ "The only way you can make us go away is by destroying your brain."_

"But I like my brain."

_ "Then why do you want us to go away? We __**are **__your brain. We are you and every person you've ever known."_

"If you **are** my mind, if you **are **everyone I know...then I must be **really **crazy."

"_Crazier than you know."_

"Fuck. They were **right**. They, those idiots who couldn't even see through Zim's shitty little disguise – " He stopped dead in his tracks. "Shit." He leaned against the wall, said, "What if...what if **none** of it was real?"

_ "Why would __**you**__ care what's real when your existence has nothing to __**do **__with what's real?"_

"Because what's real has everything to do with my sanity, and my sanity determines the validity of my perceptions. If my perceptions aren't valid – then what is?"

_ "You will never know reality. You're nothing without your reality-crutch."_

"I'm nothing."

_ "That's right. You're nothing but a meaningless, annoying, insane sack of shit. No wonder no one likes you."_

"I'm not shit!"

"_We never said you were shit. We only said you were the sack."_

"Oh. Well, I **guess** that's better, then..."

"I wanted to tell someone, but who could I tell? Dad would just put me on more drugs...Gaz would act as if she'd always known and I was stupid to not see it before...my therapist would look at me like I was a freak and recommend hospitalization...and anyone else would laugh at me.

"The only person I could expect to show compassion for me was Gretchen. But I couldn't tell her. She's the only one who'd ever defended my sanity, even if I'm not sure she completely believed it herself. How could I tell her that her bravest act of kindness was for naught?"

* * *

Dib sat on his bed, staring aimlessly into a horrific abyss.

"_How should he do it?"_

"_With a chainsaw."_

Dib clenched his fists over his sheets.

"_No – that's too messy."_

_ "Exactly. Make his sister wash his blood from the walls. That oughtta teach her."_

Dib cracked a smile. Then he began laughing. He laughed until tears rolled off his cheeks, and at some point thereafter, the laughter seamlessly transformed into crying. He leaned over the side of his bed, and fell asleep with his head and torso drooping over the edge of his bed.

Useful Notes: Mental illness doesn't make a previously non-violent person become violent. However, I don't think Dib needs mental illness to bolster his Freudian excuse for wanting to get even.


	3. Chapter 3

Dib sat on the couch, shuffling through his old psych records from when he was in high school. The phone began to ring.

**...PSYCHOTIC BREAK...**

ring

**...HEARING VOICES...**

ring

**...SUICIDAL IDEATION...**

ring ring

**...DISMAL PROGNOSIS.**

ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring

"Hello!" He picked up, panting slightly.

"Hi, Dib. Am I interrupting anything?" Gretchen asked.

"No, Gretch. I just...I need to talk to you, though."

As Dib and Gaz each got ready for skool, each got increasingly mired in their own trains of thought.

_'What if I __**am **__crazy? What sane person hears voices that tell them to kill themselves?'_ He grabbed a piece of toast and stuck it in his mouth. _'I go back and forth thinking that I may be crazy or I may not.' _He began putting his books in his backpack. _'Last night I was thinking: Why did I ever think that? – Oh, right. The voices. It seems there's so much to support either conviction, though I can't remember what supports the opinion that I am sane.' _He started to empty his backpack.

_ 'I posted my story anonymously on the Internet, and let me say, when a psychotic person recommends that you take antipsychotics, then you know you're in trouble.'_ He stared at the mess on the ground spilling around his deflated bag. _'God, I'm pathetic.'_

Gaz, without glancing up from her games (she was just that good – or she just didn't care that much), said, "Why are you being so quiet today instead of saying something crazy about Zim, or ghosts or something?"

The half-eaten toast fell with a thud to the ground. "Shut up, Gaz."

Her eyes popped out a little. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'Shut up, Gaz.' So...shut up." He swatted his hand in her direction as if she were a fly.

She grabbed him by the collar, about to punch him.

"You tell me to shut up **all **the time, Gaz. When do I get to hit you back, huh? When is that gonna happen?"

She growled. "I don't know what you've done with Dib. But consider that a warning."

* * *

The lights were dim when he hurried into his seat in Health class. "Today we're going to watch a video about schizophrenia to round out our mental health unit." Or rather, for Dib, to kick it off, considering he'd missed almost the rest of the unit. It wasn't much of a unit, though, considering that the health teacher, Mr. Brookfield, had spent most of it the way he would spend this day, nursing martinis at his desk while giving the students busywork to pretend to do while gossiping about the hottest people and the geekiest losers. Who weren't people, of course.

On one of the few days he had made it to health class during the mental health unit, he'd been unfortunate enough to come to class on "role-play day," which, despite its guise as an exercise to teach students to empathize with mentally ill people, served to do the exact opposite (as was intended, Dib speculated). Each time a group paired up to demonstrate a given mental illness, they used Dib's name for the mentally ill person.

The only person who refrained from this was Gretchen. While her other group members used Dib's name, she always replaced it with 'Sam'. The next group used Gretchen's name instead.

"_You've never gotten close to a girl. You're probably a fag."_

She didn't seem to mind the backlash.

The video continued despite his thoughts. "Schizophrenia is a severe mental disorder in which people suffer a break from reality."

"Like the Dib!" shouted Zim, to a snickering audience.

Gretchen shot him a spitball and smiled at Dib as Zim screamed out.

"Sufferers often hear voices that comment on their actions."

"_You're pathetic! You can't even talk to her!"_

"They also believe things that aren't true."

"Like the Dib!"

"These are called delusions. Frequently, schizophrenics experience avolition, which means they have little drive to do anything. It is also common for schizophrenics to lose track of personal hygiene."

"LIKE THE DIB!" All the kids began howling at Zim's remark besides Dib and Gretchen.

"Zim, if you don't shut your putrid mouth, I swear, I'm gonna – "

"You're gonna what? Sick your voices on me?"

Dib stood up, his chair rattling. "How the fuck do you know about the voices? Are you the one putting those thoughts into my head?"

"I...didn't **know** about any Dib-voices. It was a **joke**, Dib-worm."

Dib stared. "Shit." The class laughed relentlessly as he stood there, speechless, biting his lip. He got up in a quivering rage and walked out in front of the class, fuming as he hunched over and flipped the class the bird. "F-Fuck off!"

Dib walked down the hall until Gretchen, standing outside the door of the classroom behind him, called his name. Then he started walking faster.

"Dib, I –" She quickened her pace.

"Please just leave – I don't want you to think I'm –"

"Crazy?" Dib's eyes twitched. "Sorry," she quickly amended. "I mean I know you're not crazy – or I stopped thinking you were crazy when you showed me what you knew about Zim. But Dib, I...started liking you when I still thought you were crazy. I'll still like you if you really are crazy after all."

He stopped at the fountain, pressing the button for awhile before briefly dipping his mouth to wet his lips. Dib put his hands in his pockets.

Looking back and forth and donning a frantic whisper, Gretchen said, "Dib, you – you're hearing voices?"

"I guess you had to hop on the Let's-Torture-Dib bandwagon eventually."

She touched Dib's arm at the elbow. "No, no...It's just...I'm **worried **about you."

He pulled away and hugged himself against the wall. "Yes. I am hearing voices."

"Right now?"

"Yes," he said resignedly.

"What – what do they say?"

"They're saying my only option is suicide."

"Are you listening to them?"

"I have no choice."

"Dib, you can't listen to them."

"But don't worry, Gretch – I'm not going to kill myself."

She cried into Dib's shoulder. "Thank God."

He put his arms around her. "But I won't lie and say it's not tempting."

"I'll be right there."

Dib sighed, sitting back relaxing against the velvet couch, phone in hand as he closed his eyes. Gretchen. The bright spark of his life.

"Are you – do you feel like hurting yourself?"

"No...just reflecting on my past. I – don't want to be a pain, if it's too much trouble..."

"Trouble? You know how I like to reflect on you."

He smiled, laughing without opening his mouth. "I know you do."

_

* * *

What do you think is the origin of Dib's voices? Is it schizophrenia? Is it his brain pushing back from years of isolation and abuse? Both? Neither? Thoughts!_


	4. Chapter 4

Solo From Solitary

"Dib!" Gaz pounded on the door to his bedroom. "Dib, you are going to actually **shower** for once, and then you're going to our annual dinner with Dad. No lagging behind because of your stupid paranormal shit. Got it?"

He held pillows to his ears. "Chains – out of my brains –refrains from scruples of killing corpses. Shout then sky. Speak and die."

"And remember to put your clothes back on when you're done! The last thing I need is to chase my fucking lunatic naked brother down the street."

"They're intercepting thoughts like little dots...destroying the computyrannical relayer until I find myself left when only one enemy remained – the infernally inferior fault." He raised a spiked club to his computers and began smashing them to pieces. "Sever the wires!" He slit the power cords open. "Reinforce the connection!"

Gaz opened the door. "Dib, **why** do you have to ruin **everything **in my life?"

"Transmitting, tracing thoughts into my head...to be dead, telling me to be dead, dead by my own head – I cannot much more resist..."

"Then just get the fuck over it and stop bugging me."

He took his axe to the computers. "You think I can turn a knob, end the rob, corn on the cob, shut them off like lazy pipes? Simplic solutions – none succeed!" He raised the axe to prepare to strike again, stopping only when he heard Gaz speak.

"Then kill yourself already and stop whining about it!"

His face lost the remaining traces of optimism or expression that presumably still lurked behind his eyes, and he became totally devoid of any emotion, including anger, for the time that he spoke the words, "I fucking hate you."

Slowly, ominously, she said, "What did you say?"

"I said, 'I fucking **hate** you.'" He slammed his fist against his thigh. "No more pretending just to escape the path of your wrath. Why care, little sister, why should I fucking care anymore? You're the **worst **sister anyone could be burdened with! Want to treat me like crap? Keep going! Keep it up – see if I care! You can just go to hell, you fucking bitch! You can just **go to hell**! You'd feel right at home with fiery demons!" He thrust the axe into the door near Gaz's head. "Fucking ninja ghosts. They never leave."

"You're **crazy**!"

As she started to leave, Dib grabbed her hand. "I'm saner than I've ever **been**."

"If you're even slightly sane, you'll let go of me NOW!"

"Never – fucking –" he pulled Gaz toward him. "–letting go."

She struggled to get out of his grip. "Shit, Dib, what are you doing?"

"Not so tough when I'm not **letting** you beat me, huh? I **should **make you wish for death. I **should **beat you until you cry – but I'm not. Lashing out is for the weak. I'm better than that. I'm going to commit suicide, Gaz, and you're going to watch and know you **killed **me!"

As Dib inspected the blade out of miserable fixation, Gaz uttered a cold, "I guess I've done the world a **favor**, then."

"I hate you, Gaz. I really...fucking...hate you," he said, slicing the blade against his palm on each syllable.

She put her hands to her hips. "The feeling is mutual."

He held the blade against his throat, his hand steady but his eyelids fluttering.

Gaz smiled sadistically. "You're going to cut your **throat**? Who the hell cuts their fucking **throat**?" She laughed.

"Would you rather I use it on **your** throat, **dear sister**?" He made a slicing motion in the air. She just laughed louder. "Stop it! Shut up! How am I supposed to make you suffer if you're laughing?" She kept laughing. "Shut up! Just...SHUT UP!"

"Why aren't you killing yourself, Dib? Come on, you whiny little bitch, cut your throat."

"Whiny? Whiny, Gaz? I've been suffering silently the last fifteen years at the hands of shit like you. You, on the other hand, scream and cry if you're without your **Gameslave** for even a second. You're the **whiny** one, Gaz."

"Come on, Dib, kill yourself. I'm waiting."

The blade hovers near his throat.

"Come on, you little shit! Cut your stupid throat already!"

He dropped the knife.

She smirked.

"Get away from me." He shoved past her to lie in his bed, his eyes full, diverted, distracted.

Gaz jumped up and grabbed Dib by the collar. He laughed as she punched him, the blood dripping from his nose. She threw him out of the room, shouting, "Don't try pulling that shit! Again!"

He began laughing again. "Justice will be served, Gaz. And you and every other pathetic jerk who's ever harmed me will suffer the fate you deserve."

"Justice? You really **are **crazy, Dib."

"Why? What makes me so crazy and you so sane?"

"Because justice is a lie, and you're losing to it." She passed him down the stairs, leaving the house, Gameslave in hand. He sat on the bottom step, hugging his knees and staring blankly out into space.

A solitary tear fell from his eye.

* * *

On a Wednesday afternoon sometime after that, Gretchen came to deliver his homework that had been piling up from the time he'd missed. Outside his room, she removed her hair ties, unleashing her hair and letting it loose around her shoulders. She knocked, at first quietly, then a few times loudly. When that failed, she opened the door slowly. "Hey, Dib..." He was still asleep. As he stirred, she approached his bed. "Dib, it's me." His eyes opened slightly, and she touched his hand. "I...I have your homework." She dropped a stack of papers on the floor after seeing the disarray of the computer station on the desk. "So, is there anything you want to...talk about?"

"I don't know about that," he said, sitting up.

"'Cause if you do..." she said, running her hand up his arm to his shoulder, "...I'll listen."

Dib pulled back.

"I...I want you to know...I care." She hugged him.

Dib recoiled from her.

Her demeanor crumpled, hair toppling over shoulders in a final gesture of helpless desperation.

"I need to be alone. L-leave me alone." He turned his face towards his pillow.

She nodded. Her lips trembling, she said, "Feel better, Dib."

"Thank you, Gretchen."

She looked back as she left his room, tears leaving her eyes, while Dib stared blankly ahead. Back pressed against the door to click it closed, she started crying more before turning down the hall and pausing at a framed picture of a cheerful Dib hung on the wall.

The picture reminded her of how endearing Dib was, when he was actually out doing things, talking about things, and wasn't afraid of a little risk, even if some of those "doing things" meant kissing her, with the attendant risk of getting rejected. She picked it up off the wall, touching her finger to the glass over his face.

Sitting in his bed, he heard the glass shatter and the girl of his pleasant dreams screaming, "IT'S NOT FAIR!"


	5. Chapter 5

Dib stared into his bathroom sink, his eyes fixed on the knife in his hand.

"_End it..."_

"End it..." he said, lifting it up, his eyes glazed over and trancelike. Drawing it to his throat, he closed his eyes, simultaneously terrified and relieved.

He dropped the knife.

It slid on the floor. He stared at his hands, terrified. "I'm losing." He looked at his frantic, disheveled self in the mirror. "What the hell is **wrong** with me?" His eye caught the medicine chest, and he rifled through the contents until he had a bottle of Insaniquel in hand.

"_End it..."_

He inspected the bottle, reading the dosage instructions. His heart jumped, writhing like a worm in heat. He grimaced, facial muscles twitching and contorting a few times as he stared at his name on the label.

He left the door open as he left for his room. Dib sat in front of his computer, hands cupped out on his lap as if he were protecting something secret. He looked each way, panicking increasingly, fearing that someone would discover he was admitting that the others had been right all along.

The only thing that soothed him was the snapshot clipped to the side of his computer monitor. He raised one of the corners of his mouth, almost imperceptibly, mustering his energy to smile as he slipped the photo out of the clip and studied it in detail.

He put his head in his hands and began to sob intermittently between breaths, the picture fluttering to the ground. While his chest still heaved, he swallowed a pill, another two falling to the ground as he shuddered and gave rise to a small, open smile.

_ "The first month, the drugs were a blessing. I could talk without speaking nonsense; I could listen without hearing voices; I could live without dreaming death. Sure, I felt a little strange...a little hazy... but I had my __**life **__back._

_ "The best part was, I never had to admit to anyone that I was actually psychotic. I was a drug commercial waiting to happen. In retrospect, I'm not sure why I thought that was a good thing."_

* * *

Dib sat, agitated, as Mr. Farley went over the homework. "Which law do you use on problem 14?" he asked the class. Dib fidgeted, shaking his head and tapping his feet.

"The Law of Sines?" asked a student.

"Think about it: all three sides are given..." Gretchen turned to face Dib, whose eyes were twitching. "...but you don't know any of the angles..." Dib scratched his arm enough for it to bleed some. "So which law do you think applies?" Dib got up, pacing and mumbling to himself in the back of the class. "Dib, sit back down."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Farley, I can't stop it."

"Do you need to go to the counselor's office?"

His face became ashen. "N-no, I can't go there! Please, you can't make me go there!"

"I'm sorry, but if you can't stay in your seat, I have to send you to the office."

He leapt into his seat, giving a thumbs up sign.

"The Pythagorean Identity?" a student said.

Dib resumed tapping his feet. "No..." said Mr. Farley. Dib's twitching and ticcing became noticeably more animated. "Anyone know which law applies to this problem?"

Dib stood up, cursing under his breath as he grabbed the hall pass on his way out the door. "It's the Law of Cosines, by the way." Everyone in the class laughed except for Gretchen, who smiled.

The smile quickly vanished. "What in the heck is so funny?" she asked to the open air, her voice timid, as if asking for the key which would make the answer clear.

Jessica rolled her eyes. "Are you kidding me? Dib is such a loser **freak**."

The boy sitting next to her snickered as he said, "I heard he **ate **the hand of a guard at a maximum security psych ward, so they dumped him here."

Gretchen bit her lip, eyes narrowed in an intense, confined rage.

Zita said, "I heard he has a crush on someone in this class," to a chorus of "EW!"

"Wouldn't that be, like, statutory rape or something?" asked Jessica, chuckling disdainfully.

"Yeah, they should make it a law that anyone who actually wants to go out with Dib is as crazy as he is."

"Ha ha ha, yeah."

Gretchen stood, snapping her binder shut as she faced them and shouted to the class, "You guys are such dense fucks!"

After a moment of being shocked that she had cussed, they began to giggle, taking Jessica's cue and chanting, "Gretchen and Dib, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes – "

"That's enough!" said Mr. Farley.

Her backpack over her shoulder, standing at the door, she turned back to face the class. "Then comes marriage and a baby. I know. So what's wrong with that?" Outside the math class, she sighed in frustration as the inevitable groan of "EEEWWWW" followed. "Dense fucks..." Dib paced in front of her. "Dib? I thought you were–"

"Going to the counselor's office? No chance in hell."

"I've been meaning to talk to you...you just don't seem like yourself anymore. For awhile, things were great – just like before. But things are worse for you now than they ever were, aren't they?" Dib studied her face, trying to think of what to say. "Is there something going on...something new that's making you feel this way?"

"The only thing new is I'm on meds. But don't worry – I'm not going to stop just because I'm so uncomfortable. I want to stay friends with you, no matter what I have to take."

"But this is destroying you! Your personality is disintegrating. You used to be so passionate, about everything...now I can hardly tell if you're feeling anything at all. If it means losing your soul, I don't **want **you to recover."

"What do I have to be passionate about anymore? Saving the world from an alien menace? How can I be passionate about something I can't even tell is real or not?"

"Oh, he's an alien, all right. A really dumb alien."

"Quit trying to humor me!"

"No, Dib, really. It's obvious –" Together they recited the salient characteristics of the Irken: "Green skin, no ears, no nose..."

He sat down, leaning against the crumbling brick of the wall. "My God, you believe me. I have conversations with my shampoo and you believe me." Gretchen laughed. "It's not funny."

"I know it isn't. It's not what you said, just...the way you said it."

"I don't know what's so funny about the way I talk that you should laugh."

"It wasn't funny, really, it was...cute." He looked into her eyes, as though trying to work out a puzzle. "Behind that medicated haze, you're still there. And you're as sweet as ever." She took Dib's hand in hers, and they stood up. "Please, Dib, taper off the meds. You're not going to lose me."

He started to walk off.

"Where are you going?"

"Away from them. See you at lunch."

"Dib?"

"Yeah?"

She ran to catch up to him. "Is it okay if I go away with you?" Dib nodded, muttering something incoherently as she grasped his hand.

* * *

Dib stood by the kitchen table, glass of water unusually steady in his hand as he looked across the room to his father.

"I'm going to be away working on a project for awhile, so I bought your next two refills early," he said, giving Dib the bag of pills on his way to the lab.

Dib picked an Insaniquel capsule off his plate and rolled it between his fingers like a ball of clay, eying it closely. "Dad, I was wondering...how do my antipsychotics work?"

"Well, Dib, it's good you have me for a father, because I am very smart! You see, back in the 1950s, scientists wanted to create a tranquilizer that could produce a similar effect in humans as deep hibernation in frogs."

"So they act by shutting down brain functions?"

"Exactly!" His alarm beeped, signaling for him to get back to work. "I'm glad we had this talk, son." "Enjoy your SuperPeas! It's the SuperToast of vegetables!"

Once Professor Membrane had left, Dib looked at the two pills in front of him with a look of unease. After glancing both ways, he stuffed them into his SuperPeas and tossed them into the trash. Membrane popped his head back into the kitchen, seeing an innocently smiling Dib.

"I just wanted to say how proud I am of you for finally accepting treatment for your insanity."

"About that...I haven't felt a lot like myself since I started on this med. Sometimes it's like I'm a different person."

"Of course you feel different, son. You were insane, and now science is making you sane."

"...and I've been really restless, like so restless that I couldn't even sit in my seat, and I'm just never comfortable."

"What you're experiencing is called akathisia. You'll get over it." Dib rolled his eyes.

Professor Membrane left the kitchen once more. "Dad?" Dib asked, voice cracking.

He stopped, but didn't turn around. "Yes, son?"

Like a scared child, he asked, "What if I don't like the sane me?"

"You'll get used to him."

* * *

Later that night, in the early morning hours, Dib continued with his nightly ritual of pacing to loud techno music, desperately hoping it would drown out the voices.

_ "Kill yourself. Come on. Your own sister would rather see you impaled than happy, and your father doesn't give a damn about how you feel so long as you don't embarrass him. Face it: you're the most hated person on this planet, and you're only a child."_

"_Only a real lunatic could garner so much hatred at such a young age."_

"Shut up shut up SHUT UP! Don't you think I know how fucked up I am? I'm having a conversation with two goddamn voices in my head!"

"Shut up in there!" Gaz yelled from the other room. "Before I shut you up!"

"Sometimes I wish a demon would come and take her away from me."

_ "The only way you'll escape her is by ending it."_

"NOOO stop it STOP IT I don't wanna kill myself!"

Gaz shouted out, "Why the hell not?"

"_If you end her life, she will never torment yours again!"_

"NO! NO I'm NOT going to kill ANYONE!"

"_She's made your life a living hell. Why not return the favor, put a knife through her chest and send her to hell yourself?"_

"I am NEVER stooping to that level! You hear me? Huh? HUH? NEVER! STOP TELLING ME TO KILL PEOPLE I'M NOT DOING IT I'M BETTER THAN THAT!"

The door slammed open, Gaz standing at the entryway. "Take the whole damn bottle; see if I care!" His bottle of Insaniquel hit him in the forehead while she shut the door on him.

He unscrewed the cap.

He took two pills and swallowed them, keeping his hand over his mouth, prolonging the contact of skin against skin even if it was just his own.

"_You're no better than anyone else on this planet."_

"That's not true I am SO better than these people!"

_ "How do you know that?"_

"Gretchen told me so. She says I'm a good person, and I believe her."

_ "You know this world you live in is probably your self-created hell, and each person a part of you. How can you blindly believe what a figment of your imagination says?"_

"Because she believes me. She's not a figment. She's real. And I'm attracted to her and want her to like me." He sat on his bed, yawning. Damn, those pills worked fast. Or was it just a placebo effect?

"_Foolish child. How could anyone possibly love you? Don't you get it by now? No one will love a lunatic."_

"But I really want her to like me. I want to ask her out, and kiss her, and maybe..." he yawned again, "...maybe fuck her..." He grinned. Definitely just the placebo effect, because those stupid voices were still harassing him. Lying down, he said, "Yeah, that's it. On the last day of skool, I'm going to tell her how I feel about her, and I'm going to kiss her...and if she doesn't like me, I'll just stop going to skool." He pulled the covers over himself. "Yeah... that's a plan. Mmyep. Sounds like a plan to me."

"_You know you want to die..."_

* * *

Useful Notes: Professor Membrane really should let Dib try some other medication besides his own pet projects. (Can you say: "conflict of interest?") When one medication stops working or gets unbearable, often another one is out there that will work.


	6. Chapter 6

Solo From Solitary

The psychiatrist stood at the entrance to Dib's solitary room. "Well, Dib, we've observed you closely lately, and as soon as your father picks you up, you're free to go."

"That's great. Can I get this straitjacket taken off, now?"

"Mm-hm. Oh, and you have a visitor; she'll be right in."

* * *

Gretchen lay there, sprawled on his velvet couch, a glass of Chardonnay nearby on the coffee table. "I know I've asked this before, but...you said it was too much to tell me. Tell me now, Dib. How did you try to...kill yourself?"

Dib swished and swiveled a glass of water in his hand. "Gretchen, you don't..." He looked into the glass. "...Trust me, you won't want to hear this," he said, setting his water down.

"What I know is very...vague. I think I could offer some insight into your psychosis if I just knew."

"It was an unpleasant ordeal...the voices had been offering their advice of how I should kill myself." He sighed. "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

"I don't **want **to hear it...but yes, I want you to **tell** me."

* * *

"_Go ahead, Dib...End it. Sit back, relax, and End it. Enjoy the End."_

He stared uncertainly at the bottle of Insaniquel on the living room coffee table for three seconds before unscrewing the cap.

"_Yes! End it now..."_

He spilled the capsules onto the table.

_ "Take them all, Dib...not even all those will save you from your insanity."_

He ordered them into rows and columns.

"What are you doing?" Gaz asked, her indifference evident, on her way to the fridge.

As though an anesthetic had begun coursing through his veins, he calmly caressed a pill and said, "Just killing myself, Gaz."

"Tell me when you're done and I can watch TV."

When she left, he took a handful with a glass of water.

Then another handful.

And another.

He retrieved a knife from the kitchen, running to the bathroom. He took a look at his scraggly appearance in the mirror.

"_What are you waiting for?"_

He looked at the knife, smiling.

"End it..."

The trembling began in the tips of his fingers, moving rapidly to his arms, his vision blurring.

"The world shook. It was the overdose starting to kick in."

He laughed, hacking at his left wrist.

"The voices stopped as soon as I made the first cut. I finally had permission to be happy."

The world turned sideways and he began convulsing, leaving the world as only a faded memory.

"Then I passed out. Dad found me convulsing on the ground. He said I was completely expressionless. I woke up in Dad's lab...hooked up to life support." "I guess I'm pretty lucky...lucky he was working at home that day...lucky he needed to use the restroom at that moment...lucky he was a doctor in the first place. He told me later that in the time it would've taken to get me to an emergency room, I would've died."

"You were fated to live."

"Yeah. I was, wasn't I?"

"Anyway, as soon as I was up and around, he took me to the state psychiatric hospital. I committed myself willingly that time. It wasn't as bad as when I was a kid...but it wasn't pleasant or healing, either. It was better than the life I came from, at least." Dib laughed uproariously in a sudden spurt.

"What are you laughing at, Dib?"

His elbow on the arm of the couch, hand supporting his head, he leaned toward Gretchen. A wide smile materialized, showing just a little bit of teeth and highlighting the gleam in his eyes. "Everything." He burst into laughter.

* * *

Dib sat in his room, his eyes lowered, the door ajar. Outside, Gretchen slipped off her hair ties, dropping them to the floor, letting her hair down.

"I hope you're feeling better," she said, walking inside.

"I wanna fucking die." She sat next to him, squeezing his hand.

"Don't be sad."

"**Sad** is a jaunt through the park. It doesn't begin to describe what's _-twitch-_ going on with me now."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"It's _-twitch-_ nothing."

"They said you almost **died**."

"I can explain that."

"How? How are you going to explain wanting to end your life? Listen to me, Dib...no matter how much shit justifies the desire to end your life, **no **amount of shit can justify the desire to destroy your mind. It just can't."

He turned his head away from her. "I just wanted some peace."

She turned his arm over, exposing the scars on his wrist. "What peace is there in killing a loving soul?"

"You mean a _-twitch-_ hopelessly **insane** soul."

"You say that like you can't be both."

"And you think I _-twitch-_ can be?"

"Yes!" she pulled Dib's hands close to her chest.

"A loving soul...no. That suggests _-twitch-_ emotional calmness. That kind of serenity...does not exist. Not for me, anyway."

"But it can."

"I was on those antipsychotics for – for **some **_-twitch-_ distorted length of time – and look what happened to me! The voices returned at _-twitch-_ maximum dosage, I practically became a drug addict, and to ice the _-twitch-_ cake, I almost killed myself! Then, **just **when I think I can salvage **some** remnant of my shattered _-twitch-_ existence, I find out I've flunked out of _-twitch-_ high school and am incarcerated at the nearest psychiatric _-twitch-_ hospital where I become disfigured with tardive dyskinesia!"

"Then maybe what you need isn't in a drug."

"Not in a drug? What are you _-twitch-_ talking about?"

"A drug can help with voices, but...I think it's more important you **love **yourself, Dib, insanity included."

"Gretchen, tell me," he said in an exasperated plea: "How is that _-twitch-_ possible?" He held his head down in shame.

She squeezed his hand, stroking his cheek as she kissed him. He closed his eyes and touched her shoulder. "It's possible..." She touched her hand lightly to her lower lip.

Still touching her arm, Dib said, "Possible...how do I know when possibility is reality and when it's just...just delusion?"

"It's not a dream...it's not a memory, it's...now. And that's all we can **ever **be certain of."

They sat together at the edge of the bed, staring at each other, averting their eyes to their feet. When Gretchen hugged Dib, he said, "That's all I need to be certain of."

"Take care for me, okay Dib?" she said, squeezing him tighter.

"You bet I will." He kissed her below her eye.

"I have to go now – but I'll see you again real soon." She headed for his door, still blushing. "Bye, Dib!"

Smiling slightly, trying to be subtle about his glee, he said quietly, "See you, Gretchen."

While walking up the stairs that evening, Dib slipped on what turned out to be a large white envelope. "Huh. Wonder what this _-twitch-_ is." he said, picking it up and inspecting it on his way to his room.

He lay sleeping as the sun peeked through the shutters of his windows, papers from the packet cluttering his bed. A minute passed, and he still slept soundly, dribbling slightly onto his pillow. On the first ring of his cell phone, he opened one eye sharply, his lid beginning to fall again until the second ring prompted him to snap awake and answer the call. "Hello?"

"Hi, Dib. It's me – Gretchen."

He looked around in a daze. "What time is it?"

"4:16."

"Man, I _-twitch-_ slept in **really **late!"

"Did I wake you up? I'm sorry," she said, twirling the phone cord around her finger.

"Nah, it's okay. But seriously, I _-twitch-_ have the most incredible news."

They sat next to each other on a city bus, holding hands. _'It was then it hit me: Gretchen...is my __**girlfriend**__. I squeezed her hand extra hard upon realizing this. Anyone who would love me and fearlessly express it was a precious rarity; it was my fortune that she also possessed incomparable personality.'_

Gretchen looked up at him, apprehensive. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Absolutely. As sure as I _-twitch-_ possibly can be."

"I mean, school can be pretty stressful." He leaned back and massaged around his eyes, still holding Gretchen's hand and sighing out of pleasure.

Looking around to see whether any enemies were around, he said in a rushed voice, "Yes, but – it's when I **stopped **doing stuff my, uh, problem, began. I can't just _-twitch-_ drop out of life."

"I'm glad. Life gets lonely when you're not in it."

Dib smiled and pulled the cord. "This is our stop."


	7. Chapter 7

Solo From Solitary

They sat in two chairs beside each other, adjacent to a tall bookcase filled with books on topics ranging from introductory psychology to combinatorial number theory. Flipping through the promotional materials, Gretchen said, "I'm thinking about applying here, too."

"Well, that would be just _-twitch-_ perfection."

A man walked in and took a seat at the desk, began thumbing through some papers, and frowned as he let them droop down to the desk. "Dib, first of all I would like to thank you for showing interest in our fine school. I do have some concerns, however. If we were to accept you in our early college program, it would be the first time in 35 years the Academy for the Gifted accepted someone with a GPA of less than 4.0. In fact, not one student here ever had an F – let alone **SIX **of them."

"That transcript really isn't reflective of my abilities, sir."

"He scored 790 on the SAT Mathematics section, and he knows differential equations. Just look at his portfolio!"

"I've seen his portfolio. Your intelligence is daunting." He reviewed Dib's transcript. "You had a long list of 'A's before your second semester. What happened, then? Did you find high school too...too stressful?"

"Well – yes, Mr. Kellmeade, but not because of the _-twitch-_ classes. People mocked me and beat me up so many times it wasn't _-twitch-_ safe to even, to even to go to school." He looked to the ceiling. "Also, I..." He bit his lip and darted his eyes to Gretchen.

"He was..." Gretchen looked back to Dib.

"...Psychotic." They held hands, Dib trying desperately to keep his breathing even and calm.

"It's a shame that someone so bright had that kind of nervous breakdown, but if you cracked under stress before, it doesn't matter how smart you are, it could happen again."

"But I..." his eyes shifted to the psychology books on the shelf, "...I'm stabilized on _-twitch-_ meds now, though. I have someone who cares about me. And if I'm in a dorm here, I won't have to deal with my _-twitch-_ sister's wrath or the bullies at the high skool."

"Besides, you're only in ninth grade. You wouldn't even be sixteen when starting college."

"I've had to take care of myself my whole _-twitch-_ life since Dad is always working. If I could _-twitch-_ change my own diapers as a baby, I can certainly handle myself in _-twitch-_ college."

He adopted the tone of the duly concerned and ignorant. "I don't know..."

"Please, Mr. Kellmeade. Going to school would _-twitch-_ bring some much-needed order back in my life."

"..."

"Did I mention I'm the son of Professor Membrane, world famous scientist?"

"Well...considering that you're...an exceptional case, I believe we could find a place for you at this school."

He exploded from his chair, eyes lighting up as he shook Mr. Kellmeade's hand. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank _-twitch-_ you!" As he and Gretchen left, he said, "You won't be sorry. I promise you, you won't be _-twitch-_ sorry!"

* * *

Sitting on the living room sofa, Dib said, "I mean, it's just _-twitch-_ incredible! I fall on this envelope of information that I didn't even _-twitch-_ request, and now I'm less of a hopeless wreck!"

Gaz got up from the stairs, passing in front of him. "That envelope didn't exactly fall from the sky." She retrieved her Gameslave from the coffee table and immediately began playing.

"It was some kind of sign."

"Bullshit, Dib. As usual, what you're saying is just...**bullshit**."

"Then what do you propose happened, Gaz, huh? Tell me – what wisdom can you impart to me?"

"It was me sending them a stupid email, that's what."

A small thread of hope unraveling from his words, he said, "You? Why would **you** do something nice for...**me**?"

"Because if you don't go to school, you're going to spend all your time here, and I am **not** going to be your caretaker for the next four years."

"Thanks, Gaz. You're a real joy."

* * *

Sometime past one in the morning, Dib paced anxiously in his dorm room, a glass of water in his hand. The water spilled over the glass; a knock at the door had startled him. Cautiously opening the door, he saw Gretchen, her purse open and his bottle of antipsychotics at the ready.

Mood brightening, yet still deeply rattled, he said, "Thank you so much..."

"How much do you need?"

"Whatever will quiet these voices enough so I can sleep."

"How much do you usually take when it's like this?"

"Shut the fuck UP! Sorry – not you, not you. My psychiatrist said 600 milligrams."

She meted out 600 milligrams into her palm. As Dib closed his hand over them, she said, "I understand."

After he swallowed the pills, he said, "I still don't see why you insist on carrying my antipsychotics in your purse."

Taking hand, rolling up his sleeve slightly, she said, "How can you not **see**?"

He pulled his wrist away from her. "I am NOT going to fucking kill myself!"

"I'm sorry for being concerned about your life!" She turned away from him.

"No, wait – Gretchen, I wasn't talking to you! They're telling me to End it again."

She held his hands. "Do you want to End it, Dib?"

He looked at their hands, entangled. "No, I don't..."

"Then tell **them **to end it. You're so much stronger than any voice could ever be." Gretchen touched his arm, biting her lip and looking for something stronger when she saw Dib clearly struggling to believe her.

"I find that difficult to accept." He turned away from her.

"Why?"

He turned back to face her and forced out the words, "Because my weakness is tattooed to my **wrist**."

"Just because you weakened doesn't make you weak. If everyone went through what you went through – good Lord, Dib, do you know how many would do what you almost did? A lot. You persevered through so much in life. I **know **you're stronger."

"I'm not the same person I used to be."

"No one ever is."

"I hate you!" Dib yelled at the wall. "Stay the fuck out of my head just leave me alone!" He fell to his knees, beginning to sob. "I don't want to die...I don't want to die...I don't want to die... Don't want to be a nuisance...don't feel obligated, but...could you stay?" He cracked a small smile.

"I brought my books for the occasion."

By the lamplight, Dib again paced while Gretchen studied from her Introductory Psychology textbook. After an hour had passed, Gretchen asked, "Ready for the history test Thursday?"

"No! No, I'm not. Wait – yes, I am." He clutched at the sides of his head. "Stop making me doubt myself! Get out of my head!"

Gretchen stood, asking, "Why don't you try sitting down?"

"That's like asking me to shut off the voices."

Gretchen wrapped her arms around Dib when he paced near her. They paced together a few cycles around the room. "I wish you didn't have to go through this."

"I know, I know."

"Let's...let's make use of your restlessness...and dance."

"Okay...I'm not very good, though. Especially when voices in the walls constantly criticize me." Nevertheless, they moved their feet in time, swaying hips and shoulders to a shared, invisible beat.

"You're an excellent dancer."

A couple hours later, they still stood in the middle of the room, rocking back and forth, leaning against each other.

"Class today?" Dib asked, yawning.

"Yeah," she yawned. "We have a test, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Psychology. Well, better get some sleep." Dib led Gretchen to his bed.

"Dib, if you still need me with you, I'll stay awake. Your life is so much more important to me than getting a good grade."

"I'm okay now. I think the voices got pissed off that I took the antipsychotic and gave up. Now it's just whispering."

She lay down in bed. "That's good."

He sat down next to her. "I'm sorry, Gretchen," he said remorsefully.

"It's okay, Dib."

"No teenage girl should have to spend her nights reassuring a psychotic person."

"No teenage boy should have to worry about being psychotic in the first place."

Looking away, no expression on his face, Dib said, "I love you, Gretchen."

"Love you, too, Dib."

He lay beside her and caressed her shoulder, kissing her as she fell asleep. Caught in a bittersweet dream, he whispered, "I love you."

* * *

"Gretchen, why did we break up?"

Some of Gretchen's wine started to come up through her nose. "You...should know that, Dib."

"I know the reasons we created after the fact, but...why did we really break up?" She looked out the window. "Gretchen?"

"Dib, we...we've gone over this."

"How do you feel about me? I sure as hell am crazy about you." He grinned widely as she struggled to keep her composure. "It's okay. Psychosis needn't **always **be serious. Laugh." Gretchen permitted a little laughter, and Dib scooted closer to her. "Remember when we used to talk and make jokes like this all the time? It wasn't all hallucinatory nightmares and paranoia; we had **fun **together. Remember what that was like?" Gretchen looked at him, uncertain. He laid a hand over hers. "We can have that again."

"I don't know..."

"No one can **know**. But let's give it a try. Just one more try – that's all I'm asking. Just one more try to...to be a better person. I know I can make you happy."

"You already make me happy."

"Then why not?"

"You make me happy, but...every time I enter your romantic life, you get worse. You just have a difficult time coping with relationships, Dib. I think it's best we stay friends."

"That's only because I've been in so few. Gretchen, please – I'm more mature now. I haven't been delusional in two **years**. And I'm ready to love for the sake of loving you."

"The last time we were together, I had to **hospitalize **you – on our **honeymoon**. Do you know how bad that made me feel? How much I cried? I can't do that again, and that's what I'm afraid is gonna happen." She hugged him, tears streaming freely.

He ran his fingers through her hair. "Gretchen, that wasn't your fault. As bad as things have gotten when we were together, it'd be so much worse without you." He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. "Besides – who would love a raving lunatic...but you?"

"Dib..." She rested her head in the crook of his shoulder. He gave her cheek a light stroke.

"..." Her heart beat furiously, wondering what he would do next while knowing he would take her exactly where she wanted. When he did kiss her, she chastised herself for being shocked at his bold move.

"It's...been awhile." They both smiled, laughing almost.

"I'd almost forgotten how nice it was." She held Dib's hands close. "I still remember how you proposed to me..."

Together they leaned in and said in gales of laughter: "'Will you join me in marriage as the numerator over my denominator?'"

"You still haven't answered my question," Gretchen said.

"What question?"

"Am I a real number...or am I imaginary?"

After pondering the question, Dib said, "Neither. You're a complex number. You have elements of the real, elements of the imaginary..."

"Don't we all?"

"You are so beautifully perceptive. I can truthfully say the best moments of my life have transpired in your presence."

"Me too, Dib. I mean, about you."

"I know you've answered this to me before, but...I'd like you to answer **my** question...the second time around, that is."

"The one about me being your complex numerator?"

"Yes."

"I can't say no to you...because I don't **want **to say no."

"Does that mean you say yes?"

Laughing inwardly, she said, "Yes, Dib."

"Yes! Oh, Gretchen, we can do it all over again – forget the mistakes; make everything perfect."

"Great, Dib, except I have one problem with that."

"What's that?"

"I don't **want** perfection. You're exciting, and that's better than perfect!"

"If we're starting over, where should we start?"

"Let's start with the honeymoon."

* * *

"Can I get this straitjacket taken off, now?"

"Mm-hm. Oh, and you have a visitor; she'll be right in." Dib leaned to the edge of the room as the psychiatrist left the room, then sighed.

When the door opened again, Gretchen walked inside. "Heard you were feeling sad." She kneeled down and undid his straitjacket.

He looked at her, his hand on her elbow. "I was."

**

* * *

About Dib's med arrangement** in the story: the idea was that at the time IZ is set up, that some psych drugs could be taken more infrequently, on an "as needed" basis, but the idea isn't terribly popular yet due to lack of perfection and hence, problems with more psychotic episodes, but having the advantage of fewer side effects. Didn't explore it too much, though.

The story is actually based loosely on a true story. I say loosely because some parts are direct lifts from reality, whereas others started from a truth-seed, or were made fresh from whole cloth. The scene with Counselor Sardiv and Counselor Fay, is actually pretty much a direct transcript of real dialogue, from "There are three things you don't talk about..." to "...Like any learning goes on there." (The stuff before that contained paraphrases, too.)

I didn't mention it before because I wanted reviews of actual story-craft, rather than "OMG, were these people serious?" or "how much of scene X was real and how much did you embellish for the purposes of fiction?" I wrote this when I was sixteen as a comic script. It preserves pretty much everything, with only a couple hundred words added to the original script format one.

As for my interpretation, let's just say that there are many causes and types of insanity, and to shift all the blame to a victim, expecting them to pick up all the pieces and to never think of casting blame on the perpetuators of their suffering, is itself a form of victimization. While injustice does indeed leave people picking up after other people's crap, and it is a necessary step in order to get a better life, that doesn't mean ignoring or excusing the guilty party's past transgressions.


End file.
